In the womb of darkness, where water dances mute, and metal resonates with spent echoes, another life, slow, has been woven, unknown to gestures, to the most frequent motions.
Drop after drop, a calcareous waiting crystallizes the breath, hardens the promise, not an opened flower nor a wave of sea, but white wall, slow, solid caress.
The passage narrows, a veil of silence envelops the flow that is now more subtle. To build worlds is a mute artifice, a white kingdom, eternal and infantile.